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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29116551">Executioner's Song</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mehrto/pseuds/mehrto'>mehrto</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiger_Gray/pseuds/Tiger_Gray'>Tiger_Gray</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dungeons &amp; Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A monster did it, Altered Mental States, Canon-Typical Violence, Dungeons &amp; Dragons 5th Edition, Gaslighting, M/M, Multiverse, Other, Probably sex at some point, Sort Of, aasimar Aziraphale, mild discrimination against tieflings, tiefling Crowley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:41:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,218</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29116551</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mehrto/pseuds/mehrto, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiger_Gray/pseuds/Tiger_Gray</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Aziraphale realizes that his paladin Order has set him an impossible task, he flees with Crowley into the countryside rather than surrender his old friend to the gallows. However, the most dangerous events lie ahead, not behind...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Sea of Stars</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello everyone! I'm back with another event-generated piece featuring my obsessive love for Good Omens. This time, enjoy bonus Dungeons and Dragons! </p>
<p>The title is from an article about the monster I chose to use. I will link it at the end of the fic! </p>
<p>The artist who contributed the beautiful works attached to his fic is mehrto, and they can be found at the following sites: tumblr @mehrto, twitter @itsmehrto, instagram @meh.rto Please give them a follow and see more of their incredible art!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><span class="small">artwork by <a href="https://mehrto.tumblr.com/post/641864838667190272/more-do-it-with-style-events-rbb-art-this-time">mehrto</a></span><p> </p>
<p>Crowley all but ran to his destination, a chill at his back. Evening breezes coaxed the cold off the Sea of Stars into town, making him hurry to reach the sanctuary just past the docks before it could chill him down to the bone. </p>
<p>He had the hood of his cloak up and his hands jammed into a pair of colorful knit gloves, the ends of his matching scarf fluttering. Even so, his winter-weight clothing couldn’t compete with being inside somewhere warm. </p>
<p>As always, he followed Aziraphale’s footsteps in more ways than one, seeking comfort. </p>
<p>Aziraphale had an uncanny sense for the cozy, and this time he’d found himself a whole tavern to nest in. Crowley liked to nest there too -quietly, so Aziraphale wouldn’t notice and send him away - and it had become a kind of home at some fuzzy point in the past.</p>
<p>He’d been doing just such a thing for many years, and before that and before this town as he and Aziraphale moved about through Faerun. </p>
<p>Those travels he and Aziraphale had undertaken had always ostensibly been unrelated, and yet...</p>
<p>
  <em>We always find one another. </em>
</p>
<p>This time had been no exception. Though, perhaps, this was the nicest setting they’d yet found themselves in: the windows of the homes and shops he passed were hazy and golden with half-shuttered lamplight, and many of the owners had accented their sills with flower pots and herbs. The wagon tracks marking out the roads were well-worn and well-kept. The port bustled from before first light till it was too dark to see, and the impromptu markets that blossomed in the spring and summer were not to be missed. </p>
<p>He pushed open the tavern door, the huge plank of cherrywood fighting him for a moment. He put his shoulder into it and he all but stumbled into the warmth of the common room. </p>
<p>The Golden Tome had dimmed its lanterns - magical, of course, so they would be no threat to the precious paper stored within the library cum tavern’s walls - and the place had a cozy quality in the low light. Titles in gold and silver sparkled when they caught the evening illumination, books lined up like bats slumbering together in their cave. </p>
<p>Tables stacked tall with scrolls sat in the back, identifying tags of pounded papyrus sticking out the sides so the reader could find what they needed without having to pull out each carefully flattened piece, which would have quickly driven Aziraphale mad with concern. </p>
<p>The bar was dark, the tender - Jaered, if he remembered their shifts rightly - having retired to his quarters some candlemark past. The impressive collection of liquor bottles stood silent watch, the ledgers having been accounted for by Newt’s careful hand, the last customer gone to his nightly rest. </p>
<p>But the mage-lights still burned in the corner where Aziraphale, the keeper of scrolls (the title delighted him and he wielded it like a cudgel when people got too handsy with the texts), kept his office. </p>
<p>A space under the stairs, it had grown over the years until it spilled out into the bar itself. It had some privacy thanks to a couple of three-paneled room dividers marking out Aziraphale’s domain, each hand-painted with scenes involving angels. These were cherubic renditions, little plump things flitting about on their downy wings whilst playing the lyre and harp, with Torm’s all-seeing eye watching over them. </p>
<p>Aziraphale hated them, but Aziraphale wasn’t about to tell the artist that. The paintings had been a gift, after all, and a well-meaning one at that. That didn’t mean, however, that he wouldn’t tell Crowley so. Sometimes vociferously and at great length. </p>
<p>Crowley grinned as he came closer, thinking about defacing the abominations with little mustaches and maybe some crossed out eyes. Devil horns and spade tails would improve them too, surely. </p>
<p>“Are you in?” He asked, poking his head past one of the dividers. </p>
<p>Aziraphale sat at his antique desk, his little reading glasses making him look more grandfatherly than his age and race (an aasimar, which afforded him good health and long years) would suggest. Despite his smart appearance (spiffy, Aziraphale would have said if asked), he didn’t seem as if he were expecting anyone;  as he turned around Crowley could see that his waistcoat buttons were undone, and he’d - scandalous! - kicked his shoes off. He had his crisp cream-colored shirt sleeves rolled up and his expression was sleepy and warm.</p>
<p>“Ah, Crowley,” he said, in that smooth-as-supple-leather voice he used when he was talking to someone he had to make a good impression on. “Lovely to see you. You’ll come up to my rooms, won’t you?”</p>
<p>It wasn’t any sort of sexual or romantic invitation, but certain parts of Crowley didn’t seem to realize that. He had to take a moment to keep from stammering when he did speak:</p>
<p>“Of course. Up for reading me another chapter?”</p>
<p>He asked, trying to cover how flustered he was by unwinding the scarf from his neck. Considering Aziraphale had knitted it for him, though, the strategy was only partially successful. </p>
<p>“Of Miss Abbot’s Fine and Fantastical Tales? I don’t see why not.”</p>
<p>Crowley suspected it was a book of children’s stories, but Aziraphale was very careful about never mentioning that fact and Crowley had never checked. Besides, any embarrassment Crowley might have felt at his comprehension levels were overrode by the need to find out exactly what was to happen to the dragon who would be king and the dashing lady-knight who had opted not to slay her after all. </p>
<p>Aziraphale took a final drink of his cocoa, the expensive chocolate drawing a little moan of appreciation out of him. Crowley’s attention focused in the way only a snake’s could, his demonic ancestry of such a kind that he could watch Aziraphale for hours and be just as delighted as when he started. </p>
<p>He desperately wanted to taste that chocolate, right from Aziraphale’s lips. </p>
<p>Aziraphale, oblivious to his plight, stood and stretched. He didn’t really need to pop his back or roll his shoulders. He was part angel for gods’ sake. But Aziraphale was a creature of habit and he’d been blending in with humans all his life. He had many habits like that, some of them ones he’d picked up through proximity and others, Crowley suspected, that he just enjoyed. </p>
<p>Crowley preceded him up the stairs, opening the magical lock on Aziraphale’s door. It had been set to allow him entry long ago, the angelic script parting before him with nary a whisper. A little thrill always went through him; imagine, a holy language commanded to let a tiefling pass! </p>
<p>Aziraphale’s quarters should have been humble by the standards of his holy Order, but such an assumption melted away as one studied the place. </p>
<p>When Crowley stepped inside, it was onto a plush rug (he was glad he’d remembered to clean his hooves earlier that day, until they sparkled in fact). </p>
<p>The bed was huge, big enough for a reclining tiefling and a storyteller aasimar at the end of the day. It had a silver direwolf duvet, the pelts silken in their texture and able to fend off even the deepest winter. While he was usually wearing robes that covered most of him, Crowley did so love to run his fingers through the fine hairs and imagine the majestic creatures they’d belonged to. </p>
<p>A candle marking the hour stood on the sideboard, its magical flame even flickering the way a natural one would have. It smelled of lavender and beeswax, giving the surroundings a pleasant quality as if one were about to sink into a luxurious bath. </p>
<p>Aziraphale's armor and arms were neatly placed on their racks, well-kept but underused, according to some. </p>
<p>Aziraphale sighed softly as they entered. Crowley’s sideways glance caught him unwinding his neat bowtie, going on to undo the buttons on his shirt. </p>
<p>Crowley bit his lip. Watching wouldn’t be right, but it was hardly his fault if Aziraphale were reflected in the glass over the washing basin. </p>
<p>Aziraphale had a powerful frame, the frame expected of a paladin, a paladin who could spend all night and day on the march in heavy plate. However, his body was soft with pastry and ale, a combination that made Crowley freeze in place. He was sure if he so much as breathed, he’d reveal his feelings and desires. He wasn’t sure which was worse, either, the feeling or the desire. </p>
<p>He closed his eyes and when he dared look again Aziraphale had on the simple smock he slept in, a deceptively revealing item even though it was ostensibly shapeless. Aziraphale took the book they’d been reading from the table near the door and headed for the bed.</p>
<p>“Well come along, Crowley,” he said, with what Crowley recognized as faux impatience. “This book won’t read itself. And do take off some of that at least or you’ll overheat.” </p>
<p>Taking even a single glove off in front of Aziraphale felt absolutely outrageous, but he did it. He put his winter things on the table in place of the book. Once his cloak was off he crouched down for a moment and stretched his wings out, careful not to knock anything over. A little groan of relief escaped him, but he kept his head down and refused to acknowledge it. </p>
<p>When he straightened up, Aziraphale was staring at him. Was it really so terrible to see a tiefling’s wings? But no, that would be ridiculous. It wasn’t the first time Aziraphale had seen them. Most of the time, he’d been sat there in bed with Crowley’s wing half in his lap; it was a fine time to groom them. </p>
<p>As if he’d spoken aloud Aziraphale gave him a fond look.</p>
<p>“Well?” Aziraphale said again. </p>
<p>Crowley, heart in his throat, took off his robe so he was just left in his breeches and shirt. He walked towards the bed, trying to remember that they were just spending time together in a purely platonic way as they always did. </p>
<p>What did Aziraphale see, when Aziraphale looked at him? </p>
<p>“Got anything to drink?”</p>
<p>He asked, pausing halfway across the room. </p>
<p>“Of course dear boy,” Aziraphale said, opening the book at its bookmark and smoothing the pages. “Sideboard, as always. I’ve managed to find some of that ice wine you like so much.”</p>
<p>The ice wine in question was sweet as sugar and kicked like an angry mule. Perfect combination, as far as Crowley was concerned. </p>
<p>He took the slender, honey-gold bottle and necked a good quarter of the liquid burbling around inside. Thankfully Aziraphale didn’t curse him for doing so. </p>
<p>He set the bottle on the bedside table and slipped under that direwolf pelt cover, sitting propped up against some of Aziraphale’s pillows; the aasimar kept a ruinous amount stacked all over the place and of no particular coordinated style.</p>
<p>“Now then,” Aziraphale started, turning his gaze to the page. “So -- give me your wing, dear boy, there’s a good chap.” Crowley did as asked, unfurling his right wing over Aziraphale’s lap like a sail. The vulnerable underside lay exposed, and he couldn’t look at it and stay composed. “Last we read about them, the dragon king…”</p>
<p>Crowley struggled at first to retain the words, but the fingers of Aziraphale’s free hand were in his marginal coverts and nothing else at all in the world mattered a whit.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Glory of the Unseen Form</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Aziraphale's betters in the Order of the Radiant Heart appear in the sleepy seaside town he and Crowley have been calling home. No good can come of this, surely...</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The title is from Rumi's mystical poems</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sometime in the night, Crowley had dozed off. He'd awoken to a warm, empty spot in the bed next to him. Despite there being no evidence for any sinister happening, he nonetheless felt anxious and went to seek his friend. Being parted always felt like an emergency. But that was ridiculous, of course, so he tried to slow his dressing, tried to act as if the quiet panic hadn't affected him. He failed miserably, tugging his robe and cloak on too fast and having to contend with catching them on his horns for far longer than he would ever admit.</p><p>Aziraphale stood at the docks, wreathed in fog. He glowed with a subtle holy light, making him look like a strand of fairy lights in the obscuring mist. Or a constellation of fire that could turn the sky red, if he were so inclined. Crowley never made the mistake of underestimating Aziraphale and Aziraphale’s power. </p><p>Indeed, Crowley could sense the divinity around his friend as he approached. He needn’t cast any sort of detection spell to do so; the mystical energy flickered and flew there like a cloud of butterflies around a flower field in riotous bloom. Those butterflies offered the sweetest pollen even as their wings stung like barbs. At least, they stung to a tiefling. His demonic soul had its limits. </p><p>Still. He didn’t exactly turn and walk away. </p><p>
  <em>Self-preservation was never my strong suit. </em>
</p><p>“What are you doing, angel? It’s godsdamn cold out here.”</p><p>Crowley grumbled as he huddled into his cloak, thankful for the sable lining. Aziraphale, by contrast, looked as if he hadn’t even considered the weather. All he had on was a tunic and trousers. Crowley could swear he was barefoot too, the idiot. He didn't even have the decency to shiver. </p><p>Aziraphale turned with a secret little smile on his lips, and for a brief second Crowley’s heart stuttered to a stop. He often blamed his reactions on Aziraphale being an aasimar, but the fascination he had for this strange man went deeper than that.  </p><p>
  <em>What would it be like if such a smile were meant -</em>
</p><p>“I’m watching the ships come in, dear boy.”</p><p>Did Aziraphale know? How the navy tunic with its gold banding brought out the blue of his eyes? How his unruly tumble of hair made him look like a white lion, prized so by hunters yet always evading them? He longed to run his fingers through that pelt, as he liked to do with the direwolf blanket in Aziraphale’s private quarters. </p><p>He turned his attention to the sea, to look at whatever had caught Aziraphale’s attention and to offer himself a small reprieve. </p><p>It truly had earned its name, the Sea of Stars. Even in the early morning, the surface was glass-still and covered in celestial light. Ships coasted into harbor as if blessed by the hand of a well-sated Umberlee, the capricious and cruel goddess tamed for the moment by song and sacrifice. </p><p>A trireme came in flying its banners, red and silver. The song the crew had in their salt-coated mouths came out rough on the winds, jovial and strong. Faint shouts could be heard from the docks as the seasoned vessel glided into port, the thud of ropes against wood, the cry of seabirds following. </p><p>The crew poured out, rattling their spears against their much-used targe shields. A victory, then. </p><p>Crowley watched as they snaked through port and up towards the city, a golden-haired, swarthy skein of humans with good tidings at the top of their lungs.</p><p>Aziraphale looked close at all the bustle and commotion, eating grapes slowly to savor each one. Crowley’s attention was caught by the act, watching the berries alight on Aziraphale’s lips for a moment before the barest hint of his soft pink tongue took the treat deeper. </p><p>A little staining remained on Aziraphale’s mouth, and something about the hue of it made Crowley look away, blushing hot from his hooves to his horns. </p><p>“Well,” Aziraphale said. The pink veil of morning drew back, and the shining disc of the sun was revealed. “shall we go back inside? I’m afraid Gabriel wants me for something, and you’ll catch your death of cold if we stay here.”</p><p>Crowley’s stomach churned. <em>Gabriel</em> wanted Aziraphale for something? That never boded well. Any good mood he’d managed to cultivate withered in its plot.</p><p>“Fine,” he said, trying for gruff and landing on petulant. “What could that fool want with you?”</p><p>The anger building inside him reminded him of the crack in his soul. He could hear the faint howling of Kezef somewhere on the eldritch plane, the scent of decay filling his nostrils until he coughed and all but gagged. Hard to believe he’d ever made a pact with such a repugnant creature. </p><p>He didn’t realize he’d stumbled to a stop until Aziraphale gripped his forearm. He looked over at his friend, his vision clouded, the damnable howling all the closer. He had the faint sense of maggots crawling on his skin, and hot, moist breath on his face as if the hound were close enough to tear his throat out. </p><p>But, he could still see Aziraphale’s eyes. It was as if a lightning bolt had shattered like glass, points of celestial light just as the sea had appeared at dawn. The nimbus around his friend had become deeper, more intense, and Aziraphale’s hand around his wrist felt hot even through the sleeve of his cloak. </p><p>The faint scent of the beeswax and violet candle by which Aziraphale marked time brought him back to reality. Or rather, Aziraphale’s divinity had done it, and he’d interpreted the energy as the scent of Aziraphale’s private rooms. It made sense: Aziraphale had shut the door against Kezhef, who could do naught but whine on the other side of the threshold. It just happened to be a mystical door instead of a proper one. </p><p>He blinked. He saw Aziraphale’s face again, his friend’s rounded, youthful features made all the more lovely by concern. </p><p>“There we are,” Aziraphale said, patting his chest as if to help him find his center of balance. “Right as rain. Let’s head for the inn, hm? Maybe…”</p><p>“...we can have lunch,” they said together. Crowley drew the hood of his cloak up over his crown of horns (all but the curving, long ones at the front of his skull). “Sounds lovely, angel. Unless that git Gabriel peers at us the entire time. Quite rude, that.”</p><p>Both aasimar and members of the Order of the Sacred Heart, Gabriel and Aziraphale nonetheless had a difference in opinion about the role they were meant to take amongst ‘mere mortals.’ </p><p>“Now now, he just wants me to do my job properly,” Aziraphale said, though Crowley could detect the slight difference in tone, the little note of diffidence slipping through. That indicated Aziraphale was thinking about his overseer’s exacting standards, and those thoughts weren’t having a good impact. “Sure, angel,” Crowley said, watching the steps as they went up and towards the town; the edges liked to catch his hooves if he wasn’t careful. </p><p>Together they headed back to the Gilded Tome. For a moment, Crowley could forget he was a hell’s spawn. Not because the people were tolerant (though some were, Eithne at the bakery was always happy to see him, and Saorsie at the rookery too) but because with Aziraphale at his side no one dared say a crossed word.</p><p>And because Aziraphale’s divinity still pulsed in his heart, the delicious ache making him feel as though he’d never made his devil’s pact. </p><p>“Bless our slip, serah?” A fisherman of middle years stopped them before they could fully clear the docks, his simple cap pressed to his chest as a sign of respect. He wore the waders and braces many of his fellows did. There was something endearing about the tousle of grey hair that remained him, and to his credit, he spared no mistrustful glance for the tiefling who must surely look out of place beside a knight. </p><p>“Of course, my good man,” Aziraphale said with his usual enthusiasm. Crowley caught the back of Aziraphale’s shirt to keep Aziraphale from dunking himself in the ocean in his genuine desire to help his fellow, stepping too quickly. “May the good and just gods of the Radiant Order hold you in Their hands as you venture out to feed your family and your community. No one could ask more of you than this humble yet most honorable labor. Their blessings be upon you, for today and indeed for seven generations hence.” </p><p>“Thank you,” the fisherman said, his voice hushed with reverence. “I will sing Their names on the sea today.” </p><p>Aziraphale’s face bloomed like a sunflower as he smiled, the wide, genuine smile that made his dimples show. </p><p>“Good man,” he said, before moving on. Crowley kept up, his longer stride eating the distance effortlessly. </p><p>Their relative peace ended too swift, a rabbit pierced by a hunter’s arrow; Aziraphale came to a full stop just outside the Gilded Tome, and a moment later Crowley felt the concentration of divine energies too. Nothing like Aziraphale's, the signature of gentle, deep mystical power he'd come to love. </p><p>No, these signatures made him feel as if he’d been tied to a stake and the kindling had just started to smoke. </p><p>“They’re here.” Aziraphale said, the smile gone as if it had never been. “Listen, come by this evening and we’ll talk then. I don’t want them to hurt you, all right?”</p><p>He gripped Crowley’s shoulder, a moment’s full eye contact and then he was gone through the door.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. From Now On I Will Make Burning My Aim</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Order of the Radiant Heart appears to ruin Aziraphale's day (and, potentially, Crowley's life).</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Crowley's patron: https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Kezef</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale shouldered open the door to the tavern. Though, tavern was something of a misnomer; texts and scrolls lined the walls, and scholars in robes roamed the space. Trestle tables did provide seating for more traditional bar patrons, but it certainly wasn’t a space that looked kindly on chaos and rowdiness. One was more likely to find a punter bent over a book, idly drinking ale as he lost himself in the tales therein.</p><p>Of course, it probably also helped that one could be severely penalized for damaging a book or a scroll, so even the sailors had learned to eat and drink with very precise manners. </p><p>He, therefore, loved the quiet and the soft scent of well-loved and well-kept tomes. He had his own cozy corner as one of his tasks was to be master of the knowledge stored here, a job he knew his superiors looked down upon. However, they had to admit however grudgingly that it was a very good cover for a knight trying to combat evil in the surrounding city. Instead of proselytizing, he lead by example. </p><p>Supposedly. </p><p>That lovely warm feeling he often had when entering the tavern was cut short by a cruel garrote wire. There was no mistaking them, gathered at the bar and armored like polished moonrock. </p><p>The Order of the Radiant Heart. The leaders. His Order. </p><p>Gabriel had his helm off, the ornate silver armor piece tucked under his muscular arm. His sable hair somehow still looked perfect, cut short and parted down the side. The bartender, a willowy moon-elf with long, periwinkle hair and pink eyes, was staring him down with surprising potency. </p><p>Aziraphale steeled himself and approached, noting Sandalphon and Uriel flanking Gabriel. Well, at least they hadn’t brought Michael. This esteemed company was more than enough for one day without her self-assured arroga--ahem. Strong presence. </p><p>“Ah, Gabriel. Sandalphon. Uriel.” He nodded to the bartender in friendly greeting. “Good morning, Rylorian.” </p><p>The bartender nodded curtly in return at the acknowledgment, his cerise gaze never leaving the knights before him. </p><p>“Aziraphale!” Gabriel said, turning and pressing his hands together as if overjoyed to see a fellow Order member. Aziraphale barely remembered to smile, as it was always quite apparent that the sentiment did not reach Gabriel’s chipped-amethyst eyes; there was no real regard to mirror. “So good to see you.”</p><p>Uriel and Sandalphon, as ever, had little interest in presenting a facade and measured him coldly. </p><p>“To what do I owe the pleasure?”</p><p>Aziraphale asked, very aware that while his fellows were wearing the armor expected of paladins, he’d chosen to meet the day in a simple tunic and breeches. He looked less like a bared swordblade and more like one of his scrolls, well-loved and in need of some careful restoration. </p><p>“Do not the lowly consume their...vittles in a more quiet setting?” Gabriel asked. He had a way of speaking as if he’d never seen a mundane thing in his life. Which could well be the case if one knew the secret of his nature. “Perhaps we should retire elsewhere!”</p><p>“Certainly,” Aziraphale said, smiling too big out of reflex. “Rylorian, some ales for my friends and I, if you please.” As Rylorian began filling flagons, he added: “please, come along. We may meet in my office.” </p><p>They followed readily enough. Were others looking? Wondering how such a drab creature was heading up a group of swans? Perversely the shame made him straighten his spine out of pure spite.</p><p>His office wasn’t much. He spent most of his time in his little area in the main room downstairs, a spot given form by folding screens and populated with mismatched antique furniture. His favorite books and grimoires were there, jealously - he had to admit - guarded from the hands of the average patron. </p><p>He did so love texts about the gods that contradicted one another, and ones that claimed to hold secrets of prophecy. Both frowned upon by the Order, he would just have to hope that none of his fellows paid his collections any mind. They weren’t exactly scholars, beyond what was expected of a knight of the Order. </p><p>Thankfully his office space was separate from his living quarters upstairs. The Order did not belong there. If Gabriel were to walk across the threshold there, Aziraphale would never want to do the same again. </p><p>He took a seat at his desk and bid them sit on the couches nearby. They did so, Gabriel setting his ale down on the coffee table as if it might poison him.</p><p>“Well Aziraphale”, Gabriel said, leaning towards him. It was as if he’d read a text about the power of body language and was trying to use the advice without having fully tested it before. “Quite the place you have here. Obviously, you’ve succeeded at reaching hearts and minds.”</p><p>“What about the tiefling?” Uriel’s voice cut through the fake cheer, a cup of berry-sweet punch turned dark by Midnight Tears poison. “No progress there.”</p><p>“Now now,” Aziraphale said, falling into old patterns of placation whilst hating himself for it. “These things take time. Craftsmanship. You are talking about a damned soul, and while I of course am up to the challenge to rush a conversion could cause far more problems than it would solve.” </p><p>“And anyway, we are here to give you a quest,” Gabriel said. “Though it does beg the question of how you will keep the demonspawn in check if you must go away, even temporarily.” </p><p>Aziraphale pretended to think very hard on this matter before speaking. </p><p>“Ah, I shall simply take him with me. He daren’t do evil under my watchful eye.”</p><p>“And if he slits your throat in your sleep?”</p><p>Sandalphon asked, in that piggy voice that Aziraphale hated so. </p><p>“Nonsense. Our gods would never allow such harm to come to me,” Aziraphale snorted. “Surely, you aren’t questioning their potency.”</p><p>He drew the sigil of their Order over his chest via gesture, as if he were worried an offense had been done to Their names.</p><p>“Not even a knight such as yourself is outside of Their protection,” Gabriel mused, while Aziraphale tried to ignore the insult. “To not allow this would be to doubt Their power against evil.”</p><p>“Then you will make sure he is cleansed,” Uriel snapped. “At some point, this...experiment must come to an end. One way or another.” </p><p>Was she threatening Crowley? <em>His</em> Crowley? He opened his mouth and had the now you see here ready on his tongue, but Gabriel interrupted. </p><p>“When you fail, we shall still applaud your efforts,” Gabriel said. “It is honorable, trying to turn a damned soul to the light. Perhaps you will even earn a medal.” </p><p>“But...I won’t fail,” Aziraphale protested. Not that he was particularly keen on turning Crowley into anything but what he was; Aziraphale found him perfect already. But the sheer audacity, the scorn! </p><p>“The demonic heart burns with hellfire,” Uriel intoned. “And the only way to be sure is to snuff it out. “ </p><p>“Now now, Uriel,” Gabriel said, adhering as he always did to what he believed manners to be. Aziraphale found it cloying, like stuffing one’s mouth with too many candied jellies. “As to the quest, it sounds as though a town near here is being terrorized by wyverns. Why don’t you go and give that a try?”</p><p>
  <em>Wyverns? Multiple wyverns? Are they trying to get me killed? </em>
</p><p>“Why don’t you take that demon with you?” Sandalphon said as if it had been his idea all along, voice oozing like snail-slime. “Perhaps he’ll show he truly has noble intentions.”</p><p>“Or he’ll stab you in the back,” Uriel said, her hands folded primly in her lap. </p><p>
  <em>Oh. They are trying to get me killed. And Crowley too. If the wyverns don’t get us, they can blame it on him and his ‘evil’ quite easily. </em>
</p><p>A bone-deep chill pierced him and he exercised all his will to avoid trembling. It was one thing to be sitting with one’s superiors that one didn’t particularly like, and entirely another to realize one was sitting with one’s murderers to be. Uriel’s teeth had a shark-like quality when she bared them, and Sandalphon’s smile looked as if it weren’t properly fixed on his face. </p><p>“Certainly,” he said, playing the cheerful, accommodating lesser knight. “I don’t see why we can’t make short work of these beasts.” </p><p>
  <em>What have I done to make them so upset as to….?</em>
</p><p>Perhaps they weren’t trying to get him killed per se. Perhaps they were testing him. He had never quite been able to smooth over that business with his Order sword. But it was also true that these three found him an embarrassment, and that opinion was no secret. </p><p>“And,” he hastily added, realizing perhaps he’d seemed too eager to have Crowley as a travel companion, “surely under my watch the fiend Crowley will have no leeway to enact evil on the unsuspecting.” </p><p>“If he were to die in a righteous battle,” Gabriel said, as if he’d just had the thought, “perhaps he might be saved. Surely, the gods might spare his essence.”</p><p>They won’t even admit Crowley has a soul. </p><p>“Now surely,” Aziraphale said, his eyebrows drawing together and his mouth turning down in a frown. “Now surely, his death won’t be needed. Or do we not believe that the gods of the Order may redeem anyone?” <br/>
“Perhaps one who gave away his sacred blade would not be the most trustworthy judge,” Sandalphon said. </p><p>“We’ve been over this,” Aziraphale said, too aware of the whiny tone his voice had taken on. “It - “</p><p>“It hardly matters at the moment,” Gabriel said, halting all conversation before things could devolve further. “You will go and deal with these wyverns, and you shall take the demonspawn with you. Surely you are strong enough to withstand any temptations he may try to use on you.” </p><p>
  <em>Temptations? </em>
</p><p>He thought about the last time he’d been alone with Crowley and fought the urge to loosen the collar of his tunic. Nothing had happened, per se, but having Crowley so close as he slept had been intimate nonetheless. </p><p>“Of course. Any aasimar would be.”</p><p>“Don’t be so sure,” Uriel muttered darkly, staring at him with naked suspicion on her otherwise beautiful face. She shone the way gold coins shone, attractive and inspiring great need in certain people. Yet once the coins were in one’s hand, one realized how cold and hard a fistful of currency could be.  </p><p>“You have to admit, Aziraphale, that this little experiment has gone on long enough,” Gabriel said, the picture of condescending politeness. "A little test is in order.”</p><p>Good!” Gabriel added after a moment’s silence, clapping his hands together and smiling widely, like a split open, rotten fruit. “Either the demon proves his goodness - and the success of your attempts to cleanse him -, or he dies to cleanse his wickedness. Either way, justice is done. Now come, my fellows. We have much important business elsewhere.” </p><p>Aziraphale did not miss the barb, as ill-hidden as it was. He was not considered important business. </p><p>He rose to see Gabriel and company off, only sagging out of parade rest once they were little dots on the horizon. He went back to his corner and flopped into his armchair, tilting his head back and putting his arm over his stinging eyes. </p><p>“So what did those wankers want?” </p><p>Crowley’s voice roused him. When he opened his eyes, he saw Crowley’s golden features pinched with annoyance, his thin lips a stark line of disapproval. A skein of scarlet hair had fallen over one shoulder, making him look rather more like a painting and less like...whatever awful thing Gabriel thought he was. His crown of horns and unnatural eyes brought no fear to Aziraphale’s heart, though perhaps, Aziraphale thought, that was the problem. </p><p>“Crowley,” he said, rising to his feet. He grasped Crowley’s shoulders and gave him a little shake. “We have to leave.” </p><p>
  <em>They never meant for me to succeed. They think my vision has been compromised. </em>
</p><p>He thought of Tyr the All-Seer and shuddered. </p><p>“What?” Crowley said, though he was already looking furtively around as if he thought an entire compliment of paladins was about to descend on them. “Leave?” </p><p>“I’ll explain when we’re safely out of the city. Please trust me.”</p><p>Crowley’s expression eased, though his gaze remained troubled.</p><p>“Of course I do.”</p><p>“Good. Fetch me Newton, please. He’ll have to look after the library.”</p><p>His mind became a thousand pages of parchment, scribbled over like palimpsest with plans and logistics and equations. </p><p>“You’re leaving the library?” </p><p>“Crowley, there are more important things in this world than books and scrolls.” </p><p>“Are you sure you’re all right?” Crowley said, plainly stunned by such a statement. </p><p>Aziraphale shook his head, trying to clear the panic. He couldn’t overshoot; he had to seem as though he was only out to complete the task set to him. He couldn’t hint that he was planning to go rogue with Crowley in tow.  </p><p>“We shall return in a fortnight or so, don’t fret. Please do fetch Newton.” </p><p>Crowley jogged out towards the main room, and a few moments later Newtown appeared. He had on simple enough clothing, but his tunic, trousers, and jacket were well-made from the fine wool cultivated by gnomes under Gond’s divine tutelage. He fought the draft present in the back rooms with a scarf his wife Anathema had knit for him, a splash of green against his espresso-brown shirt.</p><p>He took the glasses from his face and squinted, though out of disbelief rather than nearsightedness. His fingers were stained with ink from doing the ledgers, from which Crowley had clearly forced him to part. </p><p>“Aziraphale,” Newton said, polishing his lenses with a cloth that had appeared from one of his pockets. “What are you thinking? You’re leaving? I can’t handle this place without you! I just do the sums.” </p><p>“You won’t be alone. What about your wife? And you’ve a staff of loyal employees. You’ll hardly notice I’m gone. Besides, it’s only a little quest. We will be back in a candlemark’s time.”</p><p>He felt terribly sorry for lying to such a nice young man, but lies were sometimes necessary for the greater good. </p><p>“Anathema has her own business to manage! This town would fall apart without her handing out prophecies and poultices.”</p><p>Aziraphale looked around his little space and trying to edit down what he knew he could take without raising undue suspicion. He made a mental note to write Anathema and tell her he was leaving his special books in her care indefinitely. And there was his share of the tavern to think of, and…</p><p>He threw his cream-colored traveling coat on over his outfit (bespelled to repel road dust), buckling and buttoning it closed. He snatched a fox-fur scarf from where it hung over one of the screens keeping his office space partially hidden from prying eyes and tugged it into place around his neck. He tucked the edges in under his coat. </p><p>A bag of holding came next, from its hiding place under his chair. Technically he could have fit his entire library into it, but doing so would cause suspicion and he and Crowley needed as much lead time as possible. He began tossing items into it in a frenzy. </p><p>Crowley turned up once more with a modest pack slung over his back. He had his hair tied up, and his caster’s robes were freshly unfolded. They were a dark blue and black set, with red embroidery that was beautiful as well as sturdy. His three sets of horns were polished and his favorite snake necklace was around his neck, glimmering gold and green. </p><p>“I’m sorry Newton, but the Order has tasked us with taking on some wyverns nearby,” Aziraphale said, trying to keep the manic shine out of his eyes. “It will surely only take a couple of moon cycles to handle.”</p><p>“All right,” Newton sighed, taking a pen from behind his ear and scribbling on the pad he’d brought with him. “Fine. I’m sure we’ll make do.” </p><p>“Ask Wensleydale to help you. He may be my apprentice, but he has steady hands and a good head on his shoulders for a boy his age.” Newton kept talking, but it felt like the peeping of finches; far away and unintelligible. “Crowley. I trust you’re ready?”</p><p>“Down to the skins of wine,” Crowley said, grinning and hefting his pack a little further up on his shoulder. </p><p>“All right, then no reason to delay. Come along.” </p><p>He was sure Crowley had made a derisive face behind his back, but he didn’t stop to check. This tavern and its library, so beloved only moments before, now felt stifling and hot. He couldn’t wait to get free of it.</p><p>When he made it outside, he was gasping for air. </p><p>“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” </p><p>Crowley hissed, coming up to stand beside him as he tried to breathe. </p><p>“No, not yet. Just...please trust me. As far as you know, we’ve been asked to deal with wyverns and that’s all.” </p><p>“I don’t like it, Aziraphale. You look like a sailor that’s seen Umberlee’s fin. This goes beyond wyverns.” </p><p>“You’ve never been a fool, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, already exhausted without having taken a single step. “I know that. But we must act as normally as possible for as long as possible. We’ll visit the stables and then we must away.” </p><p>Thankfully, Crowley kept silent after that even though Aziraphale could practically hear his friend’s mind churning with questions like a pot at a rolling boil. </p><p>He made small talk with the stable master, a young woman with carrot-colored hair back in a bun and clever dark eyes. Aziraphale had nothing if not gold, and he chose if not the best in the stables, at least a pair of horses that could carry a tiefling without spooking. </p><p>The stablemaster bowed her head, took his coin, and came back with a mare and a gelding. One was dappled, and one was piebald. Both had big sensitive eyes and a fine step. Good mounts, but nothing flashy. </p><p>“This one ‘ere is named Colby,” the stablemaster said, patting the piebald. “He’s had a hard start in life but he’s a whole different horse now.” </p><p>Colby went towards Crowley once his lead was slack without even having to be asked, pushing his head into Crowley’s chest. Crowley laughed, delighted, and rubbed the horse’s face affectionately. </p><p>Crowley did not usually smile or laugh without reservation, and the way it affected his heart let Aziraphale know this was the right thing. Disobeying, running away to save his friend’s life. Again, acidic rage climbed up his throat. The Order would see this beautiful, compassionate creature destroyed! And for what?</p><p>He tried not to dwell on it, even so. He couldn’t truly say before the Triumvirate of Good Gods that he’d never disobeyed, but never anything like this. Not on this scale. Yes, he’d felt the derision from his fellows, the berating over putting toes out of line when they bothered to remember he existed. But…</p><p>“Just one more moment, Crowley,” he said, knowing then what his last act should be in this place he’d come to love despite the anxiety of his betters showing up whenever the whim took them. “Stay with the horses and I’ll join you in a moment.” </p><p>Crowley smiled and nodded as both mounts nuzzled at his horns and hair. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who was weak to Crowley’s charms. </p><p>Aziraphale went up the back stairs to his sleeping quarters. He’d made it cozy; Gabriel and company never bothered to look here. The well-worn green and blue quilt, the little stone fireplace, the knick-knacks on the mantle; all his. They’d never laid eyes on his bookshelf, or his armor stand, or the little origami figures Crowley liked to make. </p><p>For a moment, despair clogged his throat and his eyes stung to the point where his surroundings swam before him as if caught in a gale. He drew a steadying breath. It was Crowley’s life at stake. No time for lip wobbling and tears.</p><p>He took what was needed for a journey of several days, shrugging into his gambeson. It was a fine garment, quilted and argent silver-white. The actual plate pieces he packed carefully into his bag of holding. He took his journal -written haphazardly in various languages and sigils that he hoped would make it unintelligible to his superiors - and his favorite quill pen. </p><p>He stopped by the bar on his way out, bidding farewell to Rylorian and packing his bag with supplies. He made sure to add food for the horses when he made it back out to the stable. </p><p>He tried to bend his head to his task, coaxing things into his bag, but Crowley’s gaze was all but burning a hole in his skull. </p><p>
  <em>Of course, he knows something’s wrong. Too transparent, Aziraphale. </em>
</p><p>Crowley had called his bluff before they’d even negotiated for the horses, for Torm’s sake. </p><p>Finally, all was set and ready. He mounted his horse, the dapple mare as solid as a statue. </p><p>“Ah forgot to mention, her name is Ermine,” the stablemaster said, sweeping some errant hairs from her forehead. “Take good care of her now.”</p><p>“As if she were my own family, dear lady,” Aziraphale reassured her. Crowley turned Colby with but a word, and took the path up to the main road.</p><p>Aziraphale followed, silent. He was too consumed by his thoughts for words and were it not for the comforting warmth of Ermine beneath him he perhaps would have been even worse off. </p><p>
  <em>They’ll be all right without me. Newton can manage the library, Rylorian the bar. Anathema is there to support them and keep them on track. </em>
</p><p>Gods, he prayed he would see his friends again. And under better circumstances, though he could hardly imagine being out from under the Order’s thumb.</p><p>Once they were out into the bucolic fields around the edge of town, Crowley spoke. </p><p>“Aziraphale…”</p><p>“Crowley, I…” His throat closed on a lump of emotion, and he fought to speak through it. “They don’t believe you can be redeemed. Or at least they don’t believe I can redeem you.” </p><p>It had happened, at least in legends and bard’s tales. Known in certain places as opal tieflings, they were demonspawn who had successfully renounced their lineage. Perhaps that was the only reason he’d been given such a chance at cleansing Crowley in the first place. He glanced over at Crowley, sitting dumbstruck in Colby’s saddle. “You know I think you need no redeeming, my friend. But the Order is another tale entirely.” </p><p>“Then this mission?” Suspicion creased Crowley’s brow for a moment. Perhaps he thought Aziraphale was to be his executioner, now that the Order had given up on his eternal soul. </p><p>“They were sending us both to die. I may be an adventurer of sorts, and you are certainly wily, but we are no match for a clutch of adult wyverns.”</p><p>“That’s where they wanted to send us?” </p><p>“I’m afraid it is. So,” he started, taking a deep breath. The scent of wildflowers and shorn grass did nothing for his bleak mood. “So, we ride out as if we are to obey, and then...I suppose we steal away in the night for other lands.” </p><p>“Aziraphale,” Crowley said sharply, bringing their horses to a stop with a hand on Ermine’s bridle. “Aziraphale, you can’t do this.”</p><p>“Why not?” Aziraphale asked, stubbornly staring at the farmhouses of Taddes Field laid out before them like a whimsical painting. </p><p>“Look at me,” Crowley said, and before the soft tone even registered Aziraphale found himself obeying. Crowley’s lovely sulfur-colored eyes were arresting against his golden skin, and Aziraphale found himself rather bewitched. “You can’t do this. I...is this to protect me?”</p><p>“Of course,” Aziraphale said, confused. Surely that was obvious. </p><p>“No. We’ll go back and I’ll let the bloody stupid Order have my head if they want. You can’t leave behind everything you care about. That library is what you’ve always dreamed.” </p><p>“Do not speak like that again,” Aziraphale said, Divine energy seeping into the words and making them more of an invocation than he intended. “I’d trade every book and scroll for you. I already have.” He straightened up in the saddle. “So there is no use arguing, and I suggest you go along with my plan.” </p><p>Crowley pulled back, hissing as if burnt. He sucked his thumb into his mouth as if the leather of Ermine’s bridle had in fact been too hot to the touch. </p><p>“All right, all right. Put the wings away.”</p><p>Aziraphale glanced behind him to see a pair of celestial wings flickering behind him. </p><p>“Oh terribly sorry, dear boy. It wasn’t meant.” </p><p>“I know.” Crowley had wings too, and Aziraphale could see their mystical outline as if Crowley were sheltering under them. “Look, I don’t understand but...I’ll follow your lead.” </p><p>
  <em>Thank the gods.</em>
</p><p>Aziraphale thought, though he wasn’t sure he ought to be thanking Them for anything.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Enter This House, My Love, Or Let Me Leave</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That night, they turned off the road to find a place to camp. It was a cozy enough spot in the lee of a stone several man-heights tall, enough space to make a little fire and to roll out some bedrolls. Good for two people fleeing from what was supposed to be a holy order on their first day out of town.</p><p>Crowley put a pot of tea on the fire once they were settled. The jasmine and apple blossoms scent made Aziraphale forget at least some of his worries for a time. The fresh-shorn grass aroma from the little villages not so long gone curled through the campsite like a serpent, the harmless ones with their little milk-fangs. </p><p>“Tea, Crowley?” </p><p>Aziraphale asked, incredulous, as Crowley brushed out his glorious red locks under a dying sun. </p><p>“I didn’t have the inkling to bring the liquor,” Crowley said, with faux-sourness. “There wasn’t much warning.” </p><p>“Very sorry, dear one,” Aziraphale murmured. The second it was out, he knew it was beyond the boundaries of their understanding of one another. It was baldly intimate, for one thing</p><p>Crowley’s hand stopped and then stuttered through the rest of the pull, the tremble in his fingers subtle yet apparent to Aziraphale. He hadn’t said dear boy, after all. <em>Dear one</em> was far different, as far as sentiments went. </p><p>Their eyes met and Aziraphale smiled. Normally he would have ignored the moment. It had been a slip of the tongue, but a not untrue one. Out here without the eyes and the ears of the Order everywhere, it was easier to make mistakes.</p><p>The solitude made him bold.</p><p>Could he truly say he’d never imagined what it would be like to press his lips to Crowley’s? How it might be to share a bed? And not only in a sexual sense, but the intimacy of simply sleeping in the same space? How it might be to press a skein of Crowley’s hair to his face, Crowley’s clove-and-orange scent intoxicating, opium-like. </p><p>He stopped himself before he spiraled down into all the fantasies he'd ever had about this being whose soul he was supposed to save.</p><p>Still, neither of them made a move towards the other. He felt as if time itself had put itself on pause, giving him the leave to stare openly and wonder what it might be like to get Crowley’s modest robe off of him for once (Aziraphale's ability to stop his impure thoughts was not as honed, perhaps, as he thought). </p><p>“You sleep,” he finally said, breaking the spell-like quality of the moment. “I’ll take watch.”</p><p>“Wake me for a second watch, all right?” Crowley said, gesturing with the pins he was about to put in his hair; it wouldn’t do to have it loose while he slept. </p><p>“Of course, of course,” he said, fully intending to ignore that and let Crowley sleep peacefully.</p><p>Or so he hoped. He remembered the last time he’d come face to face with Crowley’s...passenger, and that had only been an echo of the eldritch horror prowling the planar system for victims. Anything and anyone it could devour, it would. </p><p>Crowley narrowed his eyes, suspicious, but ultimately the desire to rest won out as Aziraphale had thought it would. </p><p>He watched Crowley curl up on one of the bedrolls, still fully dressed though the night was mild. As sleep stole upon him the tension in his form drained away, leaving him vulnerable; his brow uncreased and his mouth relaxed into a little moue. He tucked his balled-up fists under his chin as a child might do, and the last rays of daylight continued to caress his hair until night's punitive arrival forced them to stop. </p><p>Aziraphale wondered how Crowley could sleep on his horns like that. He had three sets, one being curly like a ram’s. Those were right under his high-set, pointed ears, and can’t have been too comfortable. Maybe he was just used to it. Used to it and all the other discomforts that came with being a tiefling.  </p><p>Despite his best intentions, Aziraphale dozed. The night had come down sudden yet it mellowed into something soft over time, the burr of crickets and the scent of jasmine lulling him into letting his guard drop, just a little.</p><p>So, when it came, the scent of death and decay roused him as if someone had doused him in cooking oil and set it alight. He shot up, fumbling for his sword. Thankfully, it came to his hand and he drew it without needing to think about it.</p><p>Crowley was standing there before him, but it wasn’t Crowley. He didn’t know how else to explain it, other than it was clear Something was riding his friend into a lather rather than Crowley being the one holding the reins. </p><p>Perhaps it was because Crowley’s countenance would never have worn such a cruel expression as the one that now distorted it. </p><p>His friend’s eyes had gone from gentle, gem-like yellow to a look into hell. He held himself hunched over as if he were a hunting hound. A nigh-tangible menace rolled off of him, as did the stench of entropy. When he laughed, it had a notable echo that Aziraphale could feel pressing against his brain; if it weren’t for being an aasimar, his sanity would be in serious danger. </p><p>“Angel,” Kezef said. Aziraphale had to force down his urge to vomit. Hearing the term of affection from a being of pure evil was made twice as horrifying because that being was using Crowley’s voice to say it. “I see you are still at my little warlock’s side.”</p><p>“Begone foul hound,” Aziraphale gritted through clenched teeth, raising his sword to point at Crowley’s heart. “Crowley isn’t a plaything. Let him go.”</p><p>“He is. He’s <em>my</em> plaything,” Kezef said, coming towards him whilst jerking Crowley's limbs in a gorge-inducing manner. He could hear a howl that echoed across the planes as Kezef spoke. And this was only a minor aspect of the patron in question. He wouldn’t have been able to stand against the full force of a great old one. This was taxing enough. </p><p>He put his rage into calling forth his powers. Divine energy poured into him like a white water rapid, boiling hot and practically pushing past his skin in an aurora of light. He never could have challenged Kezef itself, but this was an echo, a ghost, the <em>shrr shrr</em> of maggots feasting on a corpse. </p><p>If the true primordial evil were to ever notice him and Crowley, they would be beyond help. </p><p>“Begone! I banish you. The gods of justice see you and command you to leave this righteous servant’s form. You have no purchase on his soul, and I command you flee back to the plane from whence you came.” </p><p>“Righteous?” Kezef dared to laugh through Crowley’s mouth.</p><p>Aziraphale took his sacred symbol from his belt. It was a massive gem, carved as a sunburst with a sacred heart nestled in the center. He called out to Torm, Tyr, and Helm. </p><p>The symbol didn’t burn like a fire starting, a smolder working itself into ablaze. Instead, a flash of magic ignited it, focusing his will, his power, and his inherent divinity. The gods had answered him once more. </p><p>“I command you, evil one. Begone!” </p><p>There was a moment out of time where Aziraphale’s brain flipped, exactly as his stomach would have right before vomiting. </p><p>He woke on the ground, Crowley shaking his shoulder. </p><p>“Zira! Zira, what happened?” </p><p>Aziraphale felt around the perimeter of his head, dazed and half expecting to find a great wound. There was nothing, though that left him with the chilling thought that perhaps the wound was<em> inside</em> his head instead. </p><p>“Help me sit up,” he whispered, a dreadful migraine starting behind his eyes. </p><p>He took Crowley’s arm and managed to do as he intended. However, he couldn’t maintain the seated position and leaned heavily into Crowley’s side. Crowley was always warm to the touch, to him, and he took comfort in it. </p><p>Crowley’s arm snaked around his middle, and he didn’t mind a whit.</p><p>“My parasite showed up, huh?” Crowley asked in a small voice. “Took me over?”</p><p>“Yes, but the gods were with me,” Aziraphale said, stifling a yawn. He was exhausted right down to his bones. If it was possible for a soul to tire, his had done so. “No harm done.” </p><p>“No harm done?” Crowley exclaimed. His eyes were wide and wild. “How can you say that?”</p><p>Aziraphale heard the unspoken: <em>how can you trust me? </em></p><p>“My dear, you are in one piece and so am I. That is an optimal outcome when dealing with a great old one. Take the luck for what it is and be glad of it.” </p><p>“I suppose you’re right,” Crowley groused. “Have a little lie down before we move on. I’ll bring you some tea and a cloth for your head.”</p><p>He wanted to protest, to say that he wasn’t the one who had to deal with being possessed, but his pain said otherwise. </p><p>“All right,” he said, “please.” </p>
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